The Silver Thread
by alienchrist
Summary: Drabble. Koumyou reflects on his adorable little apprentice, and the ties that must soon be broken between them.


The mountains lurk like thin, hunchbacked giants in ragged profile against the setting sun. The burning orange paints shadows in a clear-yet-hushed shade of purple. It's then, looking over them from his encampment on the mountainside, that Koumyou thinks of little Kouryuu.

He's such a serious young boy, beautiful, slender and a little awkward like a heron. His eyes are just that color, not blue, not purple, but some shade from heaven that nests just between. The end of next week will mark the seventh anniversary of Koumyou hearing a cry, and diving (unadvised) into a river, robes and all, to retrieve the source of it. He rescued an infant with wide eyes, gold hair and little hands, wet and raw of throat from so much frantic wailing. Even though his sobs were nearly silent, gulping for air, Koumyou heard them, felt his heart tugged on. He could not have ignored it, could not have waited for another, lower monk to risk his life. That slight, distant noise beneath the roar of the river was as loud to him as the sounding of a temple bell. The silver thread that ties them was strong before they even met.

The monks at the temple named him Kouryuu. River child. They wish for the child to always remember the fortune of his rescue, and to whom he is indebted. Koumyou knows the boy dislikes the name and isn't fond of it himself. But it doesn't matter what his name is now, because he will take on another when he becomes a Sanzo monk.

For all he believes in existing within the moment, to live in a manner without distractions, since caring for a child, Koumyou finds his thoughts drifting to the future more and more - to his small and cute little ward and the horrible burden that must soon be imparted. He finds his thoughts drifting to the temple, buoyed by the image of dear Kouryuu's frowning face.

"Master, you shouldn't drink so much. Master, you shouldn't smoke where people can see you. Master, your hair's gotten awfully long." He's always saying things like that, huffing in frustration. These are Kouryuu's sullen words of affection, and Koumyou treasures them.

It must be difficult for the boy. The monks assume the worst about an oddball like Koumyou keeping a beautiful young apprentice, and in their disgust and jealousy treat him harshly. Holy men are still so unfortunately human. But Koumyou's journeys are still too dangerous and long, and Kouryuu benefits from the schooling. It's almost worse, leaving him behind these days. Though he doesn't pout like he once did, the understanding and admiration in Kouryuu's eyes leaves an ache.

Sometimes a voice within tells him Kouryuu will hate him for leaving him alone, and Koumyou ignores it, does not make his peace with the idea. He thinks it might be worse if Kouryuu never hates him for what he has to do. For they are father and son, as much as anyone ever is, and Koumyou will take the silver thread in his hands and snap it. His adorable little Koumyou will be left pawing the dark for either end of their thread, and won't notice he's wrapped it around his own ankle.

Koumyou does not fear death. He's the highest-ranking Buddhist priest, a lifelong smoker and a borderline alcoholic. There are those who become those things _because _they fear death, but Koumyou embraces things because of the fragility they show.

Embraces a bony child, sometimes, when he has nightmares.

He does not regret how things have turned out, how they are likely to turn out. And if he ever does, he tells himself he doesn't.

His fire casts flickering shadows. The violet has spread and drifted into black shadow. Night falls. Koumyou searches the sky for the moon. Is it hiding tonight, too?

He takes a long pull from his canteen, then replaces his cigarette. It's almost to the filter, and he contemplates another. Kouryuu's voice in his mind is louder than any passing doubt or philosophical banter. "Please go to bed, Master."

"Just a little longer," Koumyou murmurs. "It's very nearly done."


End file.
